


Fresh Waters

by maple_clef



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Backstory, Female Character of Color, Gen, POV Female Character, Race, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maple_clef/pseuds/maple_clef
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The interview itself is where your application hangs in the balance - no pun intended. The whole process is about assessing "fit". Will this candidate uphold the standards of our noble institution? Will she be one of us? The fact that you are in the room at all means that you can probably talk the talk. On paper, at least. But how you come across in person is critical. You’re expected to graduate, eventually, into the influential classes; the movers and shakers. Put bluntly, in this company – will your face fit?</i>
</p><p>Before Lady Ty was... well <i>Lady Ty</i>, she was Cecelia Tyburn Thames, Oxford undergraduate. This is the story of how she earned her place at St Hilda's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fresh Waters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magic_at_mungos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magic_at_mungos/gifts).



> ... who wanted: _Anything to do with Mama Thames or any the Rivers. Maybe Fleet or Beverley or Lady Ty being badass_
> 
> I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind, but I think Ty has a particular brand of badass. Maybe this is where she started cultivating it?

When I got my letter of acceptance to Oxford, I was relieved, more than anything.

You might think that an exceptional academic record, a varied portfolio of extra-curricular activities (to show that one is a _well-rounded_ young lady) and a personal statement polished to within an inch of its life would be enough. Well – it gets you an interview, and that’s about it. Because Oxford is arguably the most prestigious centre of learning in the world, and you can be certain that a startlingly high proportion of your competition is equally as erudite, accomplished and eloquent as you are.

The interview itself is where your application hangs in the balance - no pun intended. The whole process is about assessing "fit". Will this candidate uphold the standards of our noble institution? Will she be one of us? The fact that you are in the room at all means that you can probably talk the talk. On paper, at least. But how you come across in person is critical. You’re expected to graduate, eventually, into the influential classes; the movers and shakers. Put bluntly, in this company – will your face fit?

I happen to be happy with my appearance. I have no particular hang-ups, and nor am I overly modest (how insufferable that would be). I am an attractive woman – perhaps what might be referred to as “striking” or “handsome”, depending on your literary bent. I scrub up well enough for polite company. This put me on par with the majority of applicants to St Hilda’s, at that time. Poised; presentable.

I am also a black woman. This particular fact set me – continues, in fact, to set me – apart from the rest. So, did I fit? The interview was where I would have to prove that I could.

*

St Hilda’s is situated on Cowley Place, just before the Magdalen Bridge over the River Cherwell. In fact, the Cherwell meanders through the grounds of the College itself, and contributes to their picturesque nature. I arrived a couple of hours before my interview with the intention of introducing myself to the local Orisa – but there didn’t appear to be anyone home, so instead I took a walk into the city centre. I wanted to soak up some of the history of the place, the better to assimilate amongst its inhabitants. I passed Magdalen, Queen’s and University colleges before turning off onto narrow Catte Street towards the Bodleian. It was a mild day, and there were a lot of students ambling along the streets between the colleges, and more still dodging between the pedestrians and motor cars – fast and furious on their battered bicycles.

Interesting faces, faces engaged in earnest conversation, laughing faces; the faces of people with a lot of time to dedicate to answering the big questions – whether to address some pressing issue, or simply because they could. White faces, almost all of them.

Mum has always been a pragmatist about this. ‘You will always find that you are different to other people,’ she says. ‘This is not important. What is important is that you are proud, and not afraid to take what is due to you. Why concern yourself with the petty expectations of others? You are my daughter.’

Of course, being mum’s daughter does not absolve me of concern for _her_ expectations. This much I know. Quite how she expects me to negotiate – or rather _take_ – what is my due is another question for which I have no clear guidance. The myriad "agreements" are frustratingly non-prescriptive. And pride is complicated, I’ve found. There is pride in one’s family, one’s heritage, and – in my riverine capacity – in one’s status within the natural order. But what of pride in accomplishment? Merit is earned, not given. And, for me, merit is a large source of my personal pride – because I do deserve to be here. I’ve _worked_ for this. Is it enough? Or must I sacrifice personal pride to take what I know is my due?

After a cool drink in the King’s Arms I made my way back, arriving at St Hilda’s in time to be the expected ten minutes early. I sat in the waiting room, with its tiled floor and wooden boards lining the walls, honouring distinguished alumnae. I thought of the intelligent points I had prepared, all the ways to demonstrate how widely I’d read around my subjects - whilst appearing witty and eloquent.

Of course, as soon as I stepped inside the room, most of this deserted me. I like to think I was outwardly calm and composed, but I didn’t feel it, and this doesn’t happen often to me – even at that age. Two middle aged women, one man. All white. All smiling, although one of the women in that slightly fixed way that I’ve learned to politely ignore (but file for reference). We started off talking about my interest in history, and the time I’d spent in Italy. Everything you’d expect, and I can’t remember what any of us said. I remember how I felt though, which was…

Dull. I felt dull, and utterly generic. I certainly didn’t feel as though my pride was evident. I thought I caught a look of disappointment on the man’s face as I finished talking about what a _worthwhile experience_ my Italian exchange had been. For improving my Italian. I didn’t blame him. Was this it? What could I do, to fix this?

 _Reach out_ , said a little voice. _Take it_.

I have very few qualms, in the normal way, of using the glamour. It’s no more or less than an extension of my personality, after all. No different to the supreme confidence native to all those white, upper-class Harrow boys and Wycombe Abbey girls I’ve met. None of whom are expected to wave away the "chances" they are afforded, or moderate their expectations to compensate for the fortunes and good fortune they were born into. No; on the whole, I see it as my opportunity to level the playing field a little.

Except… I’d made myself a promise. And this felt like cheating. It felt like an affront to my personal pride. But to come so close only to fail because of one misstep?

I imagined the crushing disappointment. And the embarrassment, too. Having to admit to everyone who’d shared their misgivings at my audacity that they’d been right. _Applying to Oxford? Well, that’s… Good on you, Cecilia. Oh no, no, I think that’s really brave of you. Always thought you were an ambitious young lady. Good show. Let us know how you get on._ Fuckers.

What are you really made of, Tyburn? And do you have what it takes to show them? Or your mother? Yourself?

Something made me look up, then, and I caught the eye of one of the women. Professor Martindale, the historian. I held her gaze, and thought there was something… a familiarity perhaps. Or perhaps not – but then, she threw me a lifeline – albeit one that nearly made me lose any composure I still had.

‘Cecilia, I have the impression that there’s much more to you than you’ve chosen to share with us. Might I be correct in this?’ She raised an eyebrow. A challenge? Or an encouragement?

‘I believe that might well be the case,’ I admitted. ‘I’m sorry – I’m feeling much more nervous than I was prepared to be.’ Honesty. About all I could muster, at this point.

She smiled. ‘I’d rather gathered that. You seem like a young woman who is normally… Forthright. Persuasive. It must be disconcerting to be on the back foot like this. Nowhere to hide.’ A statement, not a question. And… _persuasive_? I met her eye; she held the gaze. Yes. Maybe…

‘Tell us, Cecelia – why St Hilda’s? What made you apply? Did you feel a particular affinity, perhaps, with the college, or…’

‘Yes!’ I said, and it all came flooding back – and with it the passion and excitement I’d felt when I’d made my choice – everything that had been missing from the interview, in fact.

So I told them about my research into St Hilda herself; trawling through the writings of the Venerable Bede. Discovering that she was more than an example of piety and good works – such laudable but unthreatening, “feminine” traits. A woman full of confidence in her power and authority, who lived in a time where greater sexual equality had allowed her to take advantage of her aristocratic birth – something which she did to the full.

‘And you, Cecelia,’ said Professor Martindale. ‘Do you want to be a woman of power and authority?’

Pride, I thought. And merit.

‘I believe I already am a woman of power and authority, Professor,’ I said, my voice steady. ‘But I would like to be in an environment where I can develop mastery of both, and good judgment in how to exercise them.’

Professor Martindale smiled, then. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Quite so.’ She turned to her colleagues, and between them they concluded that there were no further questions: I was free to go.

*

I had to wait a week. It passed in a blur of study and social engagements, for the most part. The world doesn’t stop, even for river goddesses - more’s the pity. As I helped mum get a belligerent Effra ready for school, the gentrified cobbled streets of Oxford seemed a world away. I thought back to the interview, playing it over and over again – analysing and reviewing – until I’d exhausted myself and had to go for a swim to clear my head.

The official acceptance letter was polite, but fairly cursory – congratulations; further information to follow. Certainly a standard pro-forma – but I wasn’t going to complain. I went to throw away the envelope, when a smaller note fell out and fluttered to the floor. I picked it up, and read:

 

Dear Cecelia,

From one woman of power and authority to another, I would like to personally congratulate you and welcome you to St Hilda’s. We believe you will be a very good fit here, and I look forward to getting to know you better over the next three years. While you can be assured that we will help you in your efforts to achieve greater mastery and good judgment in all you do, it was my professional observation that you have an acceptable amount of both already. Well done.

Yours sincerely

Elizabeth Martindale Cherwell

Professor of History, University of Oxford  
Fellow, St Hilda’s College


End file.
